The Boy With the Death Eyes
by Obnoxious Unicorn
Summary: In which Harry Potter is more than the Boy-Who-Lived, angels are watching, demons are scheming, and Death comes to all. Or: Why the Ministry is convinced that Harry Potter is the next Dark Lord. (No pairings. Warnings for blasphemy and the like — more warnings inside. This is just a bit of fun really while I get on with schoolwork and my other stories.)
1. In the Beginning

**A/N: Now, this is heavily influenced by things like** ** _Dogma, Good Omens_** **and** ** _Supernatural,_** **other Terry Pratchett novels, and even a little bit of actual biblical lore. It isn't a crossover, but there will be blaspheming, there will be shameless name-drops, and there will be several already over-used plot points being taken advantage of. I've smashed it together in hopes of creating something slightly unique.**

 **This is not a slashfic. There will be no romance between Harry and anyone. Other pairings may pop up, but I haven't got anything planned at the moment.**

 **I will be adding little asides, noted by [ ], for extra explanations as to certain events that may or may not be further elaborated upon later in the story. Because, I'm going to be honest, I have no idea where I'm going with this — it's pretty much just for fun.**

 **WARNINGS: BLASPHEMY, MENTIONS OF TORTURE, OCCASIONAL GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE, PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIPULATION, BLASPHEMY AGAIN, MORE BLASPHEMY, I REALLY CANNOT STRESS THE BLASPHEMY ENOUGH (can't say I haven't warned you…).**

* * *

 **Main Characters in** ** _The Boy with the Death Eyes:_**

 **Harry Potter:** **A boy who is much too curious for his own good, and who can't quite seem to grasp that he is stronger than your average wizard. (Other names— Well, that would be telling.)**

 **Tom:** **Tall, dark and handsome, even at age seven. (Other names: Foul Creature, Pit Dweller, Demon, Hell Spawn, Tommy, and Tom-Tom.)**

 **Hermione Granger : ****Genius child who is much too close to omniscient for certain angels' likings. (Other names: The Great Frizz-ball, Nerd, and Mione.)**

 **Ronald Weasley:** **If ever there was a time for the phrase** ** _don't judge a book by its cover,_** **it's now. (Other names: Ginge, Weasel, Won-Won, Harry Potter's Friend, Hermione Granger's Friend, and Who?.)**

 **Luna Lovegood:** **A girl who most certainly** ** _is_** **omniscient, but the angels know about this one so it's all good. (Other Names: Loony, Crazy, Barking, Barmy, etc.)**

 **Gred and Forge Weasley:** **We weren't sure which was which, so they have to share a category. (Other names: Fred and George Weasley, Pranksters, and McGonogall's Bane.)**

 **Albus Dumbledore:** **Well-meaning but** ** _incredibly_** **irritating expert meddler, schemer, and speech-giver. (Other names: Alboos (by Ivan Karkaroff), Grand Meddler, Professeur Dumblydorre (by Madame Maxine), Old Coot, and Doing This For The Greater Good.)**

 **Raphael:** **Archangel of Healing, who is so nice he'd even pass on smiting a demon. (Other names: Refael, Raph, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Angel.)**

 **Gabriel:** **Archangel of Revelations with surprisingly abysmal social skills. (Other names: The Messenger, The Voice, Jibril, Gabe, and Gabby.)**

 **Michael:** **Archangel of Justice who is the embodiment of perfection, and isn't that just so damn rude? (Other names: Dragonslayer, Mikha'el, Mike, and Michelle.)**

 **Uriel:** **Archangel of Wisdom who is a little smite-happy for someone so** ** _wise._** **(Other names: N/A, because no one in their right mind would ever provoke Uriel.** ** _Ever_** **.)**

 **Metatron:** **A very enthusiastic author who would tear out feathers over the disjointedness of this story. (Other names: The Scribe, Isn't He A Transformer?, and The Divine Nerd.)**

 **Lucifer:** **Former Archangel of Light, current ruler of Hell and general party animal. (Other names: Prince of Darkness, The Great Adversary, The Beast, The Darkest of Lords, and Unholier Than Thou.)**

 **Death:** **A being in a strange extant state of neither living nor dead, nor even strictly dying — he just kind of** ** _is._** **(Other names: Well, um, no?)**

* * *

 _In which Harry Potter is more than the Boy-Who-Lived, angels are watching, demons are scheming, and Death comes to all._

* * *

 ** _Godric's Hollow: October 31st 1981_**

 **One**

Lily Potter is clever. She is clever, she is sneaky, she is kind — the traits one would expect from three of the four Houses of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

 _Our Father, who art in Heaven…_

The redhead kneels in front of her baby, who stands in his crib, watching her with a smiling face — a smile that is slowly fading as an odd look of understanding creeps into those eyes so much like her own.

 _Hallowed be thy name_

"Harry, you are loved… You are _so_ loved," she whispers, her eyes searching the baby's face; this will be the last chance she gets to look at him. "Mama loves you. Dada loves you." Footsteps — quiet, but there — in the hallway. Desperation creeps into Lily's voice; "Harry, be brave. Be strong."

 _Thy kingdom come_

"Stand aside!"

 _Thy will be done_

Lily rises and faces Lord Voldemort, putting herself between him and her son.

 _On Earth, as it is in Heaven_

Lily Potter is brave.

 _Give us this day our daily bread_

Lily Potter is a Gryffindor through and through.

 _And forgive us our trespasses_

"Not Harry. Not my baby," she says, shaking her head. Her voice is even.

 _And lead us not into temptation_

"Out of my way, _foolish girl!_ " Voldemort hisses, crimson eyes narrowing.

 _But deliver us from evil_

"You will not touch him," she says evenly.

 _Deliver us…_

Voldemort's eyes _glow_ , and Lily thinks of hellfire, and burning. The Dark Lord raises his wand.

 _Deliver us from evil…_

Harry is crying.

 _"_ _Avada kedavra!"_

 _Amen._

* * *

 ** _—_** ** _:—_**

In a place that isn't a place, where light has not yet reached and where Time is here there and a little bit of nowhere, there is a _snap._

There is a _crack._

There is a _creak._

If this non-place applied to the basic laws of physics, it would be quite clear that there would be no way there could be any sound in a non-place with questionable existence. As it is, a non-place with questionable existence also puts the existence and non-existence of sound into question, and so, for the sake of understanding, this story will be told where — for the benefit of everyone — there is sound in the non-place.

These _sounds_ come from deep, deep, deep within the non-place; light won't reach here for what the known Universe considers at least another billion years or so. Were it possible to see anything here, you'd find a rather horrifying sight.

A skeleton: grey boned; tall; snapping into place with the sound of dry twigs as it rises in a disjointed manner, as though it can't quite remember just what movement actually is.

In a voice that, in a real place and not a non-place, sounds like a blizzard, it says, **"He is awake."**

In the Void, there is the sound of screaming winds.

In the Void, Death laughs.


	2. Foundations

**A/N: I'm glad I've managed to interest you. However, I feel like I really should make it clear that this is _not a crossover_. It's heavily influenced by some outside sources, and you'll probably be able to see it as the story progresses, but it isn't _directly_ crossing two or more universes together. The only pre-existing characters in this story are Harry Potter characters, unless of course you count figures from the Bible as characters to be taken. So yeah. Just thought I'd clear that up. **

**But still, thank you for the follows and favourites! I've got a few chapters that I can get out relatively soonish, but things will be fairly erratic as I alternate between writing this, my other stories, and schoolwork. I guess all I can say is sit tight? Anyway, I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Two**

 ** _Number Four Privet Drive: Some insignificant date in 1987_**

Harry Potter is different. All you have to do is look at his wild hair, pale complexion, small frame and unearthly eyes to know that. There is something distinctly un-normal about Harry Potter. To the Dursleys, anything un-normal is un-Dursley.

But — much to the Dursleys' disgust — Harry is not stupid. Far from it, in fact.

He knows that children are supposed to be loved by their guardians, that they are not supposed to sleep in cupboards, that they are not supposed to cook for their guardians an clean for their guardians and weed the garden for their guardians. Harry knows something is very wrong.

He just doesn't know any better, and so he puts up with it.

Everything changes one fateful fay.

It starts with water.

Water that runs into a kettle, held up by too-thin arms. Too-thin arms that close the tap, and move to carry the kettle to the stove. The kettle makes it half way. Too-thin arms can't hold the full kettle when the handle is slippy and wet.

The kettle falls to the floor.

Water spills everywhere.

It is at that moment that a large whale of a man trudges into the kitchen, places his foot right in the spreading puddle, and slips.

There is a roar, and a thud that makes the walls shudder.

Harry watches with a sick sense of horror as Vernon Dursley's face steadily begins to increase in redness.

 _"_ _Boy!"_

It starts with water, but it's the fist that really sets the proverbial ball rolling.

* * *

Harry stands in the corner of the classroom as everyone begins to change for PE. He doesn't make a move to undress; on the opposite side of the room, Dudley gives him threatening glares. Even an un-evolved ape like Dudley understands the trouble that would arise if Harry takes off his oversized t-shirt.

Mrs Callaghan approaches him, and Harry shrinks back.

"Harry, why aren't you changing?" she asks, not unkindly.

Harry doesn't look at her. He has a tendency not to look at the few nice people he knows when they are talking to him. The Dursleys say his eyes are wrong, and that they scare people away and that if he wasn't careful one day he'd wake up with no eyes. Harry only looks at the people he doesn't like. Maybe he'll scare them away, too.

(Harry always looks at the Dursleys.)

"Harry?" Mrs Callaghan prompts.

Harry shakes his head.

"Don't you feel well?"

He has to fight back a cringe. The Dursleys are always calling him a liar, even when he's telling the truth. It's not his fault strange things happen when he's near.

"I'm fine," he says. The Dursleys don't like when he's ill, especially if they have to pick him up.

"Then you're going to have to get changed, Harry."

Harry nods and turns his back to her, reaching into his plastic bag to pull out his t-shirt. He places it on the chair and takes off his jumper, then unbuttons his shirt. He hesitates briefly before slipping it off his shoulders.

"Did the freak get in a fight?" some boy whispers.

"Looks like it."

"D'you think he lost?"

"Looks like it."

Harry cringes and pulls the shirt back up, glancing over his shoulder.

The first thing he notices is Dudley. The boy is glaring — managing an admittedly impressive imitation of Vernon.

The second thing are the eyes. People looking at his chest, even when covered, as if wanting to catch another glimpse of the purple and blue and black and green and yellow to sate their morbid curiosities.

The third thing is one very specific pair of eyes: Mrs Callaghan. She is paler than her usual shade (which when one considers her red hair and freckles is an impressive feat) and stares at him with her mouth slightly open. And then, in a shaky voice: "Harry, will you please come with me?"

* * *

 ** _St Jude's Care Home: Three days later_**

Harry stares around at his new room. _His_ new _room._ He's never had this much space all to himself before, even if he has to share with someone else. He has a bed that he can stretch out in, a dresser and half a wardrobe, a desk, a _window._

"I'll give you a few minutes to put you r things away, then I'll send your roommate up, okay?" the social worker — Jenny, she'd said to call her — says gently.

Harry nods silently, moving further into the room as Jenny leaves.

One side of the room is barer than the other, but not by much. His roommate's side looks… Well, _barely_ lived in. There are a few knickknacks here and there, and the only sign of any real personality is the bookcase, which has books crammed anywhere there is space.

The sides of the room are near mirror images of one another, and so Harry goes to his side and starts unpacking his few belongings: his old toy knights, some missing limbs, some with worn paint, some with bent swords; a copy of the _Chronicles of Narnia,_ given to him as a goodbye present from Mrs Callaghan; small wooden rosary beads. Harry has never been particularly religious — he's never been given the chance to be, what with the Dursleys refusing to even entertain the idea of him going to Sunday service with them. But the beads are comforting, not just in what they stand for, but in the fact that they are small enough to unnoticeably sit at the bottom of his pocket without being noticed by anyone (by Vernon or Dudley).

"Hello, Harry."

Harry doesn't jump, but he does whirl around so fast that his head spins. He stares, wide-eyed, at the boy who must be his roommate. He sees a skinny frame, pale skin, black hair, blue — very, very blue — eyes, and Harry drops his gaze to the floor.

"Hello," he replies, his voice quiet. Loud is Vernon, so loud is bad.

"I'm Tom," the boy continues, stepping into the room and close to Harry.

Tom is wearing black trainers with grey laces.

"Hello Tom," Harry says, a little unsure of how else to proceed.

There is a brief silence in which Harry debates simply turning away and starting his new and only book, but then Tom says, "You have very bright eyes," in such a tone as one might comment on an odd looking chou din the sky.

Harry grimaces and nods.

Tom pokes him in the chest. Hard.

With a wince, Harry flinches back and glares at Tom, bringing a hand up to rub the tender bruises through his worn cotton shirt.

Tom smiles a smile that Harry has seen Dudley use a thousand times before — a smile that has the grown ups doing whatever they're asked, or even told. Tom wears it infinitely better than Dudley ever did.

"That hurt," Harry says, scowling.

Tom's eyes— Harry drops his gaze to the floor again. Tom's eyes had narrowed into slits.

"What's the matter? Come on and look at me. We're roommates, so we should be friends, right?" And Tom sticks out a hand between them.

Harry stares at the appendage for a few seconds before bringing his gaze back up to Tom's. Tom, who is once again smiling that smile that seems to have been made for Tom's face.

"Friends?" Harry repeats, wary. He's never had a proper friend before — not one that hasn't been scared off by Dudley, anyway.

Tom nods.

"You hit me," Harry states.

"I poked you," Tom corrects. "I didn't know you were already hurt."

He seems earnest in that, at least.

"I'm a freak though," Harry says, and really doesn't know _why_ he's trying to scare Tom away.

But Tom's smile only widens. "Me too."

And Harry reaches out and takes the hand, which is cold.

With the start of this tentative friendship, the Universe quakes in anticipation.


	3. Him, Lower Case

**A/N: It was ready, so I'm getting it out. I'm glad you like this story, but this chapter you'll definitely see where things get _slightly_ controversial (as only religion can be) and take a turn for the weird...er. Still, I hope you enjoy?**

* * *

 **Three**

 ** _Paradise, Heaven, Upstairs, etc.: Hmm, not really sure, but it's probably AD_**

For a place that prides itself on order and neatness, Heaven is in a complete disarray. There isn't a single angel flitting from one Sphere to another whose wings aren't a ruffled mess, or whose silky hair isn't looking like a nest, or whose auras aren't screaming to all the souls to _get away get away get out of the Father-damned way before you get smote._ In short, Heaven is in chaos.

So, for someone who has gone from a nice-ish, sunny-ish beach in Benidorm to _this_ , it is rather a shock.

Raphael stands at the Gates, a queue of souls beside him and a very bored looking St Peter at the toll booth.

"Raphael, I think Michael wants you," Peter yawns, idly flicking through another soul's resume. Getting into Heaven is a very elitist thing, after all.

Raphael just stares as angels fly overhead, here there and everywhere. He tentatively opens up the telepathic connection between he and his siblings — only to slam it closed again when what can only be described as _screaming_ rings through his head.

"Oh dear," says Raphael. He looks at Peter.

The saint hands the resume back to the soul and says, "Welcome to Heaven, Pet Heaven is to the left, Eden is in the Inner Sphere, don't walk on the grass, have a nice afterlife. Next!"

A dreamy-eyed soul wanders idly past him and through the golden gates, fading in a wisp of white smoke as they make their way to their own, personal Heaven.

"Peter," Raphael calls. The saint pauses in his reading of the next resume to look up at him with a raised eyebrow. "Peter, what's gotten them all riled up?"

"Haven't you been listening?"

Raphael gives him a look, because _really_ , why would he want to listen to his siblings' chattering away when he's on holiday?

Peter sighs, waving the soul to the side. A very surprised, somewhat amused and ever so slightly miffed Nelson Mandela [1] steps aside to make room for Raphael, who leans over the counter so Peter wouldn't have to speak so loud.

"What's happened?" Raphael asks.

"They've found him."

The _him_ didn't sound at all capitalised, so Raphael knows it wasn't, well, _Him,_ but obviously another _him_ that is apparently very important [2]. "Him?" prompts Raphael.

Peter sighs impatiently. "Him. Only neutral angel in existence? Head Reaper? You know, that one angel who's been missing since that Gomorrah fiasco? _Az—"_

 _"_ _Shh!"_ hisses Raphael, glaring at the saint. "When you say he's been found—" he doesn't let himself finish, feeling slightly ill at the thought of one of them — one of his brothers — dying, or worse.

"Relax; he's… Well. You should probably find Michael," Peter says, looking uncomfortable. "I have souls to send on their way.

Raphael sighs. "Isn't Gabriel around?"

"What do you think?"

Right. _Of course_ Gabriel isn't around. He's probably off wandering the wastes of Purgatory — _again_.

With a sigh, Raphael materialises his wings and makes the flight to the one place where he knows he'll find Michael.

* * *

 ** _The Garden_**

When one thinks of St Michael the Archangel (that is, someone who is fortunate(?) enough to know St Michael the Archangel) the image that comes to mind is usually along the lines of steroid-pumped rugby player on crack. That image is more or less true, to a certain degree.

Any other angel, and if you saw them walking down the street you would think they were just regular, if not unusually good looking, people with remarkably white teeth [3].

Michael is distinctly not human. Softly curled, golden hair that just brushes his collar; eyes an impossible blue that is, somehow all at once, somewhere between the colour of the evening sky, the Pacific ocean, and the hue of Neptune; broad shoulders; muscles upon muscles that would make a weightlifter sob in despair. Michael is the inhuman image of perfection.

Raphael, standing just a short distance away from his brother, can't say he's ever been one for insecurities. But there's something about his Hawaiian shirt, orange shorts, pink flip-flops, yellow sunglasses, dark wavy hair, and lean build that just doesn't compare with Michael's angelic divinity.

Michael is, after all, His First.

"You wanted to see me, Michael?"

Michael's eyes turn to him from some far off point who-knows-where (well, He knows where but that's not important right now), and the Archangel grins. "Raphael! How was your holiday?"

"Quiet," Raphael says, raising his eyebrows. Because, despite Michael's perfection, there is something off: a hair out of place here, a slight twitch in the jaw there. "That's not why you wanted to speak to me."

Michael sighs, dropping the facade. He is suddenly the soldier Raphael recognises. "No. Azrael has been found."

Raphael remains silent, because there isn't all that much to be said.

Michael continues, "He's done… _something._ We don't know what. Whatever it is—" Michael presses his lips together.

Raphael frowns, not used to seeing his unflappable brother this — well — _flapped._ "What is it? Is he safe?"

"Raphael, he's a child."

"Come again?"

* * *

[1] May he rest in peace.

[2] It is to be noted that _He_ has been quiet for some time now, and it is the suspicion of many that dubious characters such as Donald Trump and the Zodiac Killer are just His way of telling His children that He'd hit somewhat of a roadblock in terms of His Creations, a midlife crisis if you will, and to leave Him be for a millennia or two while He goes and makes the most of His youth (His youth, of course, being entirely relative in the way that only primordial beings ever can be) and generally berates Himself for the mere existence of politicians.

[3] Angels generally do not display their wings in front of humans; they tend to get odd looks and asked if something called a _Comic Con_ was on.

* * *

 ** _St Jude's Care Home: Two days after taking residence_**

The other children avoid Tom and, by proxy, Harry. It's disheartening, but at least he has Tom. Tom, who has told Harry that he can borrow his books. Tom, who has done nothing else to hurt him. Tom, who really seems to be making good on his offer of friendship.

It's a Friday: Friday means pizza day. Harry waits while the other children at the table grab their slices and pour their drinks before going to get his own, smaller slice. He feels Tom's gaze on him, so he turns to look at the boy.

"What?" Harry asked, not knowing why Tom is frowning like that.

"You're letting everyone else get the good bits," Tom observes, glancing at the small pizza slice in Harry's hand with just a single half of a pepperoni piece on it.

Harry shrugs. "Yeah, 'cause that's what I'm supposed to do."

Tom's stare doesn't waver, but somehow managed to have an awful weight to it — something ugly is in those blue eyes. "Is that what your relatives told you?"

"Well, yeah, but—" And Harry stops, because he remembers that children were not treated like the Dursley's treated him, and that they were no longer around to tell him what he could and couldn't do. Harry looks at the second, still-whole pizza in the middle of the table, and he smiles slowly. He smiles with the realisation that, for all his _freakishness,_ he could _be_ a normal boy now. He turns to Tom and grins broadly, and his friend's dark expression shifts into one of mild surprise.

And Harry, heart pounding with the exhilaration of the fact that the Dursleys really are _gone_ , reaches for the second pizza and tears off one of the largest pieces.

Later, when the social workers settle down to sleep, they'll recall the wide smile on that odd Harry Potter's face and wonder just what had gotten into the so far reserved boy. But as they picture that expression, they'll find themselves smiling, too, and will go to sleep with the pleasant feeling that Everything is going to be Okay.

* * *

 ** _The Garden of Eden: Most definitely AD (we asked Jesus)_**

"You want me to _what?!"_

Michael holds his hands out placatingly, because — while Raphael might be half his weight — the Healer is actually quite terrifying when enraged. All it takes is one good _snap_ of the Archangel's fingers, and Michael won't be able to fly for a week.

"I want you to go down to Earth and look after him," he repeats calmly.

"I am _not_ a _babysitter!_ My days of looking after _fledglings_ are _over!"_ Oh dear, Raphael's golden eyes are glowing dangerously.

"He isn't a fledgeling! He just doesn't remember—"

"No. No, no, _no!_ Get _Gabriel_ to do it! By the Father, get _Uriel_ to look after him!" Raphael protests, taking a step towards him.

Michael wisely takes a step back. "Gabriel is about at sociable as a rock and Uriel will likely _smite_ anything he doesn't take an immediate fancying to. You _know_ you're the best option."

 _"_ _Why?_ Why not a Cherub or a Seraph? Even _you!"_ The glow is receding, but Raphael is still clearly incensed if the flaring of his golden wings are anything to go off.

"Raphael," Michael sighs, and it seems to do the trick.

The Archangel sighs, wings drooping. "I've _just_ got back. And now I have to _babysit_ sodding _Azrael."_

"You used to be close," Michael muses.

Raphael shoots him an irritated glare. "Yes, and — in case you've forgotten — _a lot has happened since those days."_

Michael doesn't need reminding of everything that happened in that time. He hadn't even been surprised when the Grigori came to alert him that they could no longer see Azrael. It had long been coming.

"Will the Reaper be showing up, do you know?"

"Possibly. You never quite know with him," Michael says, thinking of Death.

Raphael rubs his forehead and sighs. "Right. Right. I'd best be off, then."

Michael watches as his brother flies away, leaving a golden streak in his wake.

* * *

The most common description of Hell is that it is _beneath_ the Earth. Well, though that is in itself a geological impossibility, humans got the general _idea_ of it right. Hell is, in fact, in a parallel dimension to the mortal plane of existence — a _lower_ dimension. So in a very ultimate sense of the term, a bad person does, indeed, go _down_ to Hell when they die.

Similarly, Heaven is in a higher dimension. There are pathways — few though they are — between Heaven, Hell and Earth that can only be travelled by one whom is no longer bound to the mortal planes; thus, their immortal souls ascend or descend into their places of eternal rest.

(There is still, of course, the matter of Purgatory, however we aren't quite up to that yet in our story.)

It is known to few — very, _very_ few — that the mortal plane was not meant to hold the presence of an immortal. It can be figured out by plain common sense when one considers the mere process of the journey to Heaven or Hell, but there isn't an overabundance of common sense in this tale.

And so, with the presence of not just one, nor two, but three-and-a-half immortals roaming the Earth…

Creation gives a tremble, clutches its stomach in discomfort, and dry heaves.

A crack appears.

The gates of Hell bulge outwards, and the lower dimension strains against the weakened fabric of Reality.


	4. All Manner of Mortal Nastiness

**A/N: Well, I _warned_ people that things would take a turn for the blasphemous last chapter, but it seems a couple of people thought I didn't mean it. I'm sure I'll live without those follows/favourites, but _please take heed of the warnings I put up in all capitals in chapter one. Really. Please. I'm writing potentially offensive material here_ _— religion is a delicate subject and I am practically beating it with a sledgehammer here._**

* * *

 **Four**

 ** _St Jude's Care Home: Two weeks after taking residence_**

"Do you believe in magic, Harry?" asks Tom that night as they lay in their respective beds.

Harry stares up at the blankness of the ceiling. Things happen around him, he knows that. He can make animals do what he wants; he can escape tricky situations seemingly without any logical explanation; he can plant ideas in peoples' heads and have them go and follow through.

"Yes," he admits quietly.

"So do I," says Tom. "I have it, you know. So do you. And I don't mean any of that rubbish that the social workers tell us."

Harry understands what Tom means by that, with the social workers always being sure to tell them that they're all God's creations and that He made them special in their own unique ways. Harry has never really been sure how he feels about _that_ spin on things. Magic, however — real, you-ca-touch-it, magic— Now that's something Harry can believe. The Dursleys has always been quick to stamp out anything to go with it, even when _Dudley_ had mentioned the dreaded M-word. But how can it _not_ be real for the Dursleys to hate it so much? No one hates anything _made-up_ with the fervour with which the Dursleys hated magic.

"I think you might be right, Tom," Harry agrees. "So, we're definitely freaks then. But not the bad sort."

You can get good freaks. Like that nice girl down in the shopping centre in the music shop, the one with all the tattoos and piercings and her half-head of multicoloured hair and her tongue that's split into a fork. She always smiles and waves on the weekends when they go out shopping.

"We're not the bad ones. We're wizards," says Tom, his tone taking on a wistful edge. "Imagine it, Harry. Wizards and witches just like us. We'd all go to a school; a big, old school where we'll be taught spells and all kinds of things. An entire _world_ of us, safe from muggles who'd treat us badly, and—"

"What's a muggle?" Harry asks, frowning.

Tom pauses for a second. "It's just a word I heard somewhere. It means 'normal' people, people who don't have magic. Boring people."

"Oh," Harry says, then silently mouths the word to himself. He doesn't really like it. It's a silly word, really. He then rolls onto his side, facing Tom's general direction in the dark. "You really think there're so many people like us?"

"Not like _us_. I still think _we're_ special. But I _know_ we aren't the only ones who can't do magic," Tom says with such utter surety that Harry can't help but believe him. "We'll be stronger. Better, because we already know all about it already. We'll be the best, brightest, strongest wizards the world has ever seen."

Harry smiles, and he thinks he sees Tom's face turn to him. An entire world like them… "Tell me more about the school. If it's a magic school, it should be in a magic place. Like a— Like on a mountain, or underwater, or— or in a _castle."_

"A castle. A big, beautiful castle," Tom agrees with a sigh.

If Harry closes his eyes, he can see it. Somewhere remote, and cold, with huge towers and turrets, and grand halls and courtyards; surrounded by mountains, maybe, and there's a lake nearby, and a forest.

Harry sees it, and he believes it.

* * *

 ** _—_** ** _:—_**

Slowly, slowly, one spasmodic step at a time, like an old wind-up toy that hasn't been used in years, Death walks through the cracks of the Multiverse, searching, searching for the right one.

* * *

 ** _St Jude's Care Home: One day later_**

Raphael doesn't at all like this idea. St Jude's is more than a suitable place for Azrael to stay, so why _he_ has to do this is _completely_ beyond him.

"Harry's a very quiet boy, but seems happy enough. Really, it's a blessing, given what the poor boy went through…" Martha Heaton gives a sigh, shaking her head.

Raphael frowns. "What he went through?"

Mrs Heaton's eyes harden. "Harry's relatives — his aunt and uncle — kept him as a slave. They woke him at the crack of dawn, had him do chores that bordered on manual labour, made him sleep in a _cupboard—_ " The social worker stops to take a breath. "Mr Skye, if I never encounter another child who has been the victim of abuse then I can say that Mr and Mrs Dursley have truly pushed me to my limits."

Raphael sits back, horrified. "They did this to their own _nephew?"_

"They were under the impression he was some kind of devil-child, as if that justifies their actions. I'm not one for religion, myself." Mrs Heaton shakes her head again, completely unaware of _Mr Skye's_ wings that hovered just outside the physical plane.

Raphael sighs.

"You understand then, why I'm concerned it may be too soon for Harry to leave the Home."

Yes. Yes, Raphael more than agrees that Azrael would be better off _here,_ where Raphael is less likely to muck up and let something slip that he really oughtn't, but Michael doesn't — unfortunately — see it that way.

"I understand," Raphael says, and he sends just a smidgen of Divine Intervention (read: cosmic power of persuasion) her way. "I would like to meet Harry, if that's alright?"

Mrs Heaton smiles brightly, but there's an edge to her eyes. His powers always _were_ less effective on the non-believers. "Of course," she says, standing. "If you just wait here, I'll go and find him. He'll probably be with his friend Tom."

Five minutes later, Mrs Heaton returns with a small boy barely tall enough to reach Raphael's hip. Black hair, short… The Azrael Raphael remembers was nothing like this. His brother had been tall, imposing, with bone white hair and skin just as pale.

"Harry, this is Mr Skye," Mrs Heaton says, nudging the boy closer but remaining close behind him.

Raphael stands and smiles, kneeling down to Harry's level. He is, after all, just a child. "Hello Harry."

"Hello Mr Skye," replies Harry, seemingly finding the carpet of more interest than Raphael himself.

"You can call me Raphael if you'd like," he offers.

Harry's eyes flash up to him with a brief smile and a nod, and then Raphael knows.

Those green eyes, a near unnameable shade — Raphael has only ever seen that colour twice before in history. Once, in the hue of a particularly nasty curse that has the uncanny ability to kill instantly; then again in the eyes of his lost brother.

Were Raphael anyone other than an Archangel whom has been about since the Beginning, he might have been put off by the death eyes in this young face. As it is, Raphael is himself, and Raphael cannot bear the thought of his once great brother being abused on the whim of a handful of vicious humans. His brother, who really _is_ just a child; small, fragile, susceptible to hurts and all manner of mortal nastiness.

With a smile that has been known to thaw the hearts of even the cruellest of demons, Raphael offers his hand.

* * *

Harry is confused, and he is entranced. This Raphael Skye is interested in him, but Tom told him that only the normal kids get people coming to see them. Harry never expected someone to come and ask to _get to know him,_ as they apparently all say, but the Home is _infinitely_ better than Number Four Privet Drive and so it really hadn't bothered him. Then again, the thought of _home_ isn't really something Harry really knows how to apply to anywhere. Number Four? Certainly not. The Home? Harry really can't say he's all that attached to the place itself, no matter how nice it may be.

A real home though, somewhere to look forwards to coming back to, to always have at the back of your mind and have the knowledge that no matter what, it will always be there for you? That is a foreign concept for Harry, something he is entirely unfamiliar with, and yet seeing Mr Skye in front of him — Mr Raphael Skye with his radiant smile and shiny dark hair and unflinching golden eyes — ignites something within Harry. The hope that Raphael Skye is there for _him_ and _just him_ sets off a kind of _yearning_ that Harry hasn't felt since the days Aunt Petunia told him his parents were dead. Harry yearns for home, and for family.

It is a terrible thing to long for a home you never had.

And so the offered hand — a show of friendship and peace — kindles a tender hope in Harry's heart, and he takes it and gently shakes. Raphael's hand is soft and thin boned.

"Harry, would you like to show Mr Skye around the Home?" asks Martha.

Harry ducks his head and nods, only now realising that he held eye contact for far longer than he is usually comfortable with.

Perhaps it is the colour of Raphael's eyes: gold. Harry has never seen someone with such dark skin with such light eyes before. In fact, he's never seen _anyone_ with eyes that colour before.

"It's alright if you don't want to, Harry," says Raphael.

Harry peeks back up at him and finds that he is still smiling that smile, and he doesn't think that expression can be described as anything other than _beautiful._ Harry didn't think he'd ever use that word for a boy.

And Harry finds that he very much wants to show Raphael around, because something about Raphael seems like he just might fill that gaping chasm he never knew he had within him: a chasm left by the absence of a home. With a tentative smile, he nods.

Raphael holds out a hand, and Harry takes it.

As they walk through the corridors and through the garden and from room to room, Raphael's smile seems impossibly brighter and even more radiant. Harry would even swear the man is glowing — a nice, soft glow, gold like his eyes — but of course, that would just be silly.


	5. Grey Greyness of the Greyest Kind

**_St Jude's Care Home_**

Raphael the Archangel, Healer of the Host, is well known for his friendly disposition and love of… well, everyone and everything. He is a big believer in Second Chances, and the Prevalence of Good. For a long time, you see, there was nothing _but_ Good in Creation. And somehow, through a holy war and through death and hellfire and all kinds of nasty things, Raphael managed to keep this strong, unfailing belief in Good, even when other angels became more jaded, more reserved.

That isn't to say Raphael hasn't had his rough patches — he went on holiday for a reason, after all. That, however, is not something to be elaborated upon as of just yet.

As the Healer, he was once — long, long ago — responsible for the welfare of the fledglings up in Heaven. Raphael recalls the fluffy wings and the rosy cheeks, and bright laughter — before the War, that is. There were no more fledglings after his brother Fell from grace.

Strolling through the Home's garden, Harry's small hand in his own, Raphael remembers why he enjoyed looking after the fledglings so much: they were just so damned _oblivious._ Oblivious to the horrors of the universe, the nightmares that live within shadow and flame. Crushing black holes and roaring supernovae; nuclear wars and starvation; plagues and drought — they hadn't a single clue. And there is something deep within him, something that the Healer has not felt in an age, that is like a burning desire to _protect_ that naivety, that pure, blind, _silly_ innocence.

Of course, Raphael never once thought he'd be caring for _Azrael,_ were he ever to take in another fledgling.

Harry smiles a shy smile. "Do you want to meet my friend?"

In the face of that brilliant innocence, Raphael can't help but smile brightly down at the boy. "Of course, that would be lovely."

Or so he thought.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle is a tricky one. The carers never quite know what to make of him. A polite boy, quiet and respectful, but oddly cold and aloof in a way that a seven year old just _shouldn't_ be. There is much speculation about his arrival at the Home. Honestly, whenever one of the carers tries to recall his first days, or the circumstances of their arrival, an odd white noise seems to fill their ears, and a thin line of blood trickles from their nose. They are momentarily overwhelmed by a sense of utter and complete terror, and yet they just cannot seem to pinpoint _why._ And then they will remember that they meant to make themselves a cup of tea, or that they had a Very Important Thing to do, and they will be off on their merry way.

Six months prior, Tom Marvolo Riddle crawled out of the vast grey of Purgatory and into the spare bedroom in St Jude's Care Home, tucked the bedcovers around him, and smiled at his achievement.

 _Can't escape here,_ they said.

 _When you're down in the Pit, you're in the Pit for good,_ they said.

 _Enjoy the rest of forever,_ they said.

Six months ago, that strange Tom Riddle boy grinned at the darkness and laughed, and the darkness cowered.

That Harry Potter should happen to come here was mere happenstance, and it was wholly unanticipated. Which, when one considers the means of time travel and dimension skipping and the like, is most worrying.

Tom is a demon, yes. Tom _may_ be edging on the 'evil' side of neutral, if such a thing is possible. But Tom also spent centuries gathering the fragments of his soul from the flames of Hell, groping around in the eternal darkness for the rest of himself. Tom _also_ patched himself back together and dragged himself through the dimensional weak spots and into Purgatory, where he spent a further millennia wandering the wastelands until he found yet another path through dimensions — this time, to Earth. Tom spent most of his power, both newly acquired and old magic, to rip through Reality and go against the river of Time[1]. Tom fought his way back to Earth, and Earth is where Tom is going to _stay._

Heaven and Hell and humans can all go and have their wars, their apocalypses. He doesn't particularly care, to be perfectly honest.

The wizarding world is all Tom is interested in; dreams of a vast castle and the green hills of Scotland are what kept him sane this past two millennia. He yearns to return more than anything.

But no. More than anything, Tom wants to _live._ And he thinks Harry Potter might just be able to help him with that.

So he'll be damned — _again_ — if he lets this bloody _angel_ take the boy away from him.

Tom stares at _Mr Raphael Skye_ with thinly veiled disgust. He can practically _smell_ the ozone on the winged terror — and as if a little bit of dimensional manipulation was going to fool _him?!_ Oh, of course, that _vague wing-shaped shadow_ behind the tall, slender Latino definitely isn't going to be _wings._

And Harry— Harry is smiling shyly; a smile that Tom recalls from their first week of sharing a room. A smile that Tom _knows_ means that Raphael will have Harry wrapped around his finger in no time at all. Tom is going to have to sink his claws in and hold on _tight_ , because he is _not_ giving Harry up without a fight.

With a sneer at the simply _divine_ smile on the archangel's face, Tom supposes it could be worse.

Heaven could always have sent Uriel instead.

* * *

[1] It is to be noted that Reality and Time do not appreciate this violation in the slightest and will not hesitate to act should anything go drastically wrong*.

*It is also to be noted that it takes a long time for Reality to change all that much, and that Time really doesn't have much say over reality that goes much further than the inevitability of ageing. Reality and Time like to think they have more sway than they really do.

* * *

In a vast grey greyness, there are grey skies and grey cracked earth. Grey trees with grey leaves are scattered across the grey, casting darker grey shadows which really have no right to exist at all given the distinct lack of a sun.

In the grey wasteland, there is a burst of colour. It writhes in the air, much like one might expect to see were they to examine a Picasso while on LSD. The fluctuating spectrum, hovering in the air, is near enough blinding, unbearable to witness in the bland grey around.

This maddening grey is Purgatory, and this swirling orb is a weakness between dimensions.

In front of the orb is a lone figure, staring into the blinding explosion of colour with ease. There is a small smile on his white face, and small rainbows dance across his skin. Silver eyes stare widely into the colours.

He raises a thin, almost delicate hand, and sinks his finger into the dimensional wall.

* * *

 ** _St Jude's Care Home_**

Raphael opens his mouth to say something to the demon, bearing in mind that Harry is in the room and very much doesn't know a thing about who he — either of them — really are.

He stops short when he sees a slim finger wiggling about in the air — just a finger, nothing attached, about three inches from the demon's face.

The demon goes a remarkable shade of grey, and Raphael smiles down at Harry. "Why don't we all go back out into the garden? It's such a lovely day."

"Sure," Harry shrugs, and he leaves the room.

Raphael and the demon stare at each other — Raphael raises his eyebrows, and the demon scowls — and the finger continues to wiggle.

* * *

The colours bleed from the vortex onto his skin and clothes, but neither had all that much colour to begin with anyway. The smile widens, and he thrusts his entire arm through. The air against his hand is warm; not the stagnant chill of Purgatory.

He grasps the orb by both hands and pulls, stepping through cleanly.

"Oh. Hello Raphael. Hello Tom."

Enter Gabriel.


	6. One Archangel, Two Archangel

**Six**

It's an odd place, this is. Dingy and dusty, with faded blue walls and grey curtains. Like someone decided to take the bleakness of Purgatory and smush it all over the place.

There is light and dark in his vision. Golden light, pure, beautiful, calm, good; swirling dark, endless, void, chasm and night. He shivers, closing his eyes, and the pleasant nothing of his eyelids gets rid of the harsh contrast.

"Gabriel?"

"Hmm?" he hums, tilting his head in the direction of the noise. The voice, the voice, he knows the voice. Golden light, pure, beautiful, calm, good— "Raphael!"

"Ah, yes. Yes, it's me. Gabriel, why are your eyes closed?" asks his brother.

Gabriel smiles. "There's a pit dweller in here. It doesn't mix well with your colour, my brother. Not a pleasant mixture at all. Why is there a pit dweller in here, Raphael?"

"Oh, him. Of course. Um. I can't say I'm entirely sure why he's here myself, but I do believe he was just about to explain himself."

Gabriel cracks an eye open, peeking at his brother. The gold is shot through with white. Raphael isn't happy, but he isn't unhappy. Confused. Befuddled. Puzzled. Discombobulated. (Gabriel smiles, because he likes that word. He'll use that word more often.) When he slides his eyes over to the demon, he frowns and closes them again. That deep endless dark void darkness — it's older than it should be, and yet barely of any age at all. And there is that smell…

"I don't have to explain myself to you. _Either_ of you," says the demon.

Gabriel inches closer, breathing deeper, deeper.

"If you think for one moment that I'll let you anywhere _near_ Azrael, you're—"

"Wait, _Azrael?"_

"Oh dear. You didn't know? Of course not. Oh my. Ah—"

"Will you get your bloody brother away from my face!"

A small hand, tainted by the darkness, plants itself in Gabriel's face and shoves. Gabriel opens his eyes in surprise — _rude —_ as he stumbles into his brother. Raphael catches him, safely wrapping him in his arms and that warm golden embrace.

The smell though— Now where does he know that smell? Like orange peels and potatoes all whirled together in a blender and then sprinkled with cinnamon. Like summer and earth and Christmas. Gabriel doesn't particularly like Christmas[1]. It reminds him of this one awful event—

Event. Occurrence. Happening. Moment.

Moment. Instance. Second. Tick, tock, tick—

 _"_ _You're_ the one who's been upsetting Time!" Gabriel says, wildly pointing an accusing finger at the writhing blob of dark.

"Time? Gabriel, what's that about Time?" Raphael asks.

Gabriel smiles and closes his eyes again, resting his head on his brother's shoulder. Raphael always was so safe. Safe and warm and… glowy. Glowy-er than Michael and Uriel, nowadays. _Certainly_ glowy-er than… the other… other one… Gabriel frowns again, insides twisting in distress. He's quite forgotten the name he was looking for.

"Your brother's insane," says the demon.

Which, really, was a bad move on Tom's part.

* * *

Oh. Oh dear. The demon _really_ oughtn't have gone and said that. Raphael shakes his head in alarm, trying to warn the demon to back off, but a quick glance down at Gabriel has him grimacing.

His brother pushes away from him and stands straight, his silver eyes almost a pure white as they burn with power. Wings flash in and out of existence behind Gabriel, and Raphael gets a face full of feathers every time.

 _"_ _Watch yourself, demon. Speak when spoken to and not otherwise,"_ speaks the Archangel of Revelation, rattling windows.

Raphael winces as he hears car alarms blare in the distance, and a few dogs start barking.

"Gabriel?" he calls, hesitantly reaching out a hand to place on his brother's shoulder.

"Mr Skye—"

Oh _dear._

"Harry!"

"Azrael?"

 _"_ _Harry."_

"Who's Harry?"

"Mr Skye, who's he?"

"Azrael, you're shorter…?"

"Gabriel, _please."_

"Angels, could the both of you _kindly—"_

"Please what? You didn't ask anything."

"Tom, what's going on?"

"I have no idea."

"Tom? Is that the hell spawn?"

"The _hell spawn_ is right _here."_

"Tom?"

"Harry, maybe you should—"

"Why is everyone calling Azrael Harry—"

 _"_ _Enough!"_

With Raphael's shout, the room falls silent. Gabriel stares at him with wide eyes, almost impossibly paler than usual[2]. The demon — Tom? — looks about ready to bolt, but his eyes keep flicking towards—

Harry. Raphael turns to the child, and guilt and shame burn inside him. The boy is cringing, hunched in on himself, and once again Raphael is painfully reminded that this is _not_ actually Azrael, no matter what Gabriel says, and that Harry _is,_ in fact, a _child._ An _abused_ child.

With a small sigh of regret, Raphael slowly kneels down to Harry's level. "I'm sorry for shouting, Harry. This is Gabriel, my little brother. I'm afraid his visit was rather unexpected, and things got a little… mad."

Harry peeks up at him, then at Gabriel, and then his gaze drops to the floor. Raphael tries not to sigh again. The boy had _just_ been opening up as well.

"Harry." It's the demon.

The fact that Harry doesn't hesitate to respond to the demon's call makes him frown slightly.

"Maybe we should get ready for lunchtime," suggests Tom.

Harry nods, looking down again.

No one moves for a time, and Raphael knows he won't get much farther today. "I'll let you two eat then. Would it be alright for me to see you again, Harry?"

Harry looks up at him with those familiar eyes, and the boy opens his mouth to say something… before snapping his jaw shut and looking down once more, shrugging his shoulders meekly.

Raphael smiles, but it feels forced. "Alright then. I'll see if I can arrange something with Mrs Heaton, and she'll ask you if it's okay." He stands straight, grasping Gabriel's forearm and pulling him towards the door. "Goodbye Harry."

Raphael thinks he hears a quiet "bye", and it lifts his spirits slightly.

"Goodbye, Azrael!" Gabriel says cheerfully, and Raphael tugs him along quicker. "Wait, we aren't going to smite the demon? But Uriel says—"

"Uriel? Oh, _Uriel_ will have a lot to explain next time we see one another," Raphael promises. Honestly, Uriel _knows_ how impressionable Gabriel can be. Going around, smiting anything and everything that is less that saintly is hardly role model material. Uriel is supposed to be the _sensible_ one.

If things keep going the way they're going, Raphael is going to start malting from the stress.

* * *

[1] It is common knowledge that Gabriel the Messenger informed the Virgin Mary that she was with child, and that that child would be the son of God. It is _less_ common knowledge that the Virgin Mary thought Gabriel was a demon and proceeded to throw several amphoras at the poor angel's head.

[2] One does not simply make the Healer of Heaven angry.

* * *

After lunch, Harry sits on a bench in the garden with Tom. He isn't happy, and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like that he went from feeling the happiest he can remember to… well, not being. But Raphael shouted, and his eyes were _burning,_ and it was _awful._ And his brother kept calling him a weird name, and kept calling Tom a demon.

Maybe he shouldn't have gotten so hopeful. Maybe he just isn't meant to have a family.

Eyes stinging, Harry blinks rapidly, turning his face away so Tom can't see.

"Did he scare you?" asks Tom.

Harry shrugs, not really wanting to talk.

"You don't have to go with him if you don't want to. You could stay here… We could both be okay here," Tom continues.

Harry droops. He knows that. But Raphael Skye ignited something in him; a terrible, terrible _yearning_ that burns through him even now. Harry _wants_ a family. He wants a home. He wants to go with Mr Skye, he thinks. But what if Raphael is really no better than the Dursleys?

And if he goes with Raphael, will he ever see Tom again? They didn't seem to like each other all that much. And Mr Skye's _brother…_ Harry isn't sure _he_ likes _Gabriel_ all that much.

"I want a home," says Harry, his voice quiet, afraid of Tom's reaction.

But Tom just says, "I know."

And they sit on the bench, silent, more somber than a seven-year-old and a demon _pretending_ to be a seven-year-old have any right to be, and they think on things that seven-year-olds really ought not worry themselves with.

* * *

 ** _—_** ** _: —_**

Death sinks his finger bones into the fabric of Reality and _tugs_. There is a _tear,_ and somewhere there is an earthquake measuring nine-point-five on the Richter scale. Shrouded in void and endlessness, Death steps through onto the Earth.

Unfortunately for Death, this is an Earth where the one he is looking for is nothing more than a character in a very popular book series.

Never mind. With a great slash of his scythe, Death rips Reality open and renters the Nothing Between Everything, moving onto the next potential Earth.

Unfortunately for this particular Earth, this vicious tear in Creation is the origin of several centuries worth of stories and conspiracy theories about a particular area known as the Bermuda Triangle.

None of this matters to Death. He has one thing, and only one thing, on his mind. Everything else will come in time. Rather, _he_ will come to everything else in time.

He always does, and Death does so _hate_ to be late.


End file.
